


Library

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:22:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock recites the periodic table in his head to keep himself sane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Library

**Author's Note:**

> A scene in this is shamelessly stolen from _Atonement_ by Ian McEwan.

There is an antique set of drawers in Mycroft's room that Sherlock knows once belonged to a Tsar of Russia. Mummy is unbearably proud of it and gets it polished once a week before showing it to guests at dinner parties.

Sherlock politely doesn't inform her that he and Mycroft once had sex on it, not wishing to upset her.

It is against this set of drawers that Sherlock chooses to lean as he watches Mycroft dress for dinner, already knowing which shirt his brother will pick, waiting for him to catch up with the decision.

"They seem utterly committed to boring me into a particularly nasty case of narcolepsy," he mutters idly, fingering a pile of government documents left sitting on the dresser. They held his interest for less than five minutes when Mycroft first brought them home. "I have no idea why Mummy invited them for Christmas."

"Flood damage to their house, apparently; a rather unsightly business," Mycroft replies, selecting a deep navy blue shirt, holding it against him. "I like this one."

"Makes you look fat."

Mycroft stares at him for a moment but Sherlock refuses to look away. In the end he backs down, replacing the shirt in the wardrobe. "Mummy is doing a good turn."

"And making the rest of us suffer," Sherlock grumbles.

He has been home approximately nine days and the Mountstuarts have been here exactly eight. The matriarch brays like a horse when she laughs and her husband has been carrying on an affair with his chief housekeeper for the past four years that he doesn't plan to put an end to any time soon - a small fact Sherlock deduced within moments of meeting him. The fact that the horsey Mrs Mountstuart can't see this makes her a dullard, and Sherlock has absolutely no time for dullards.

"Barrington seems like a rather nice chap," Mycroft says, leaning up to collect a tie from a shelf in the wardrobe and exposing a patch of cool, marble skin as he does so. Sherlock immediately focuses in on the gap, feeling his mouth water.

"I could quite easily be convinced he actually has a loaf of bread in place of a brain, though."

Mycroft turns and Sherlock averts his eyes, gazing casually out of the window. "Sherlock..." His voice has a subtle warning tone to it. "Do play nice, now."

"He seems to follow me wherever I go like some sort of festive wraith." When he looks back to his brother, Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm beginning to believe I'm a Dickens character."

"The poor boy is trying for Oxford next year; I expect he just wants to make a friend before he gets there."

The idea of having a friend of _any_ kind makes him shiver, never mind Barrington Mountstuart. "I had to double back on myself and lose him in the servant's wing just to come here alone," he sulks. There has been _no time._ None. And Sherlock despises nothing more than people _hanging on_ to him. It's almost like being back at Oxford.

He's been afraid to leave his bedroom of a night incase Barrington is out there waiting for him like a spectre of doom wanting to chat. Or follow him.

"Try the maroon one," he snaps, when Mycroft holds up a dark green shirt and begins to open his mouth. He feels more irritable than usual, everything twice as tedious as it usually is, and that's saying something. Mummy has already picked him up on it twice, asking him why his temper is so short. He can't possibly tell her, of course.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asks, squinting in the poor light of the bedroom, dimming from the evening drawing in outside.

"Fine," Sherlock replies, purposefully _not_ looking at his brother's fingers, the way they're curled around the curve of the coat hanger, the way the knuckles whiten as he grips. He concentrates on running over all of the elements in the periodic table represented by numbers divisible by four. It's basic but he finds it usually calms him down slightly, takes the edge off.

"You're being more difficult than usual."

"Perhaps that's because you're being more annoying?" Sherlock offers, but then watches as Mycroft puts his shirt aside and crosses the room towards him, patient and meticulous. He is reminded of a cat on the prowl and recites to himself in his head, 'ruthenium, cadmium, tellurium...'

"Are you sleeping alright?" Mycroft asks, stopping in front of him. When a hand is raised to the skin beneath's Sherlock's eye he swiftly brushes away the affectionate gesture. He has no idea why.

"Perfectly." Sharp and cold and born of prickly frustration.

"You look tired."

"Tired of you, yes."

It's a pointless blow but Sherlock meets his brother's eyes anyway. Thankfully he's never been put off by such flagrant rudeness and merely steps closer, parting Sherlock's feet with one of his own and stepping into the space.

A roll of something heavy and dangerous moves in his stomach and Sherlock's fingers twitch.

"You prefer the maroon?" He asks, fingers moving to Sherlock's jaw in a very precise way, the way he holds him when Sherlock is on his knees and - 

Sherlock feels his mouth go dry. He knows that this is what Mycroft is trying to remind him of. It pulls the already tight cord inside him even tighter and he watches a keen pair of eyes dart to his mouth.

"It makes you look less like a blimp."

Mycroft smiles tightly, false despite the fact the lines around his eyes wrinkle in humour. "I suppose it would be beyond you to be amiable for a moment or two?"

"You suppose right," Sherlock replies, then feels the fingers at his jaw tighten slightly, sending waves of sense memory through him.

"They're leaving on Boxing Day," Mycroft says quietly, glancing once again at his mouth.

"I may have expired by then."

The smile this time is small but real. Sympathetic, even.

"Patience, Sherlock."

"It's not me touching _you,_ Mycroft."

With a slight nod of his head to concede the point and a careful drag of those delicate fingers around the curve of Sherlock's jaw, Mycroft sighs. "No, but I'm not treating our house guests like imbeciles."

"They _are_ imbeciles," Sherlock counters, and tries not to focus on the press of a thigh up against his.

"Perhaps try lying, then?"

There is a beat whilst he physically has to stop himself reaching out and touching the familiar body in front of him and Sherlock feels his fingers itch. "I'm afraid I've forgotten how."

"Erased it, have you?" Mycroft asks, fingers drifting up into the lazy tangle of Sherlock's curls. He can't help leaning ever-so-slightly into the touch. 

"Possibly."

Mycroft licks his lips and Sherlock finds his mind blurring in a way it very, very seldom does. He sees rather clearly how humanity gets so very little done if they constantly have to fight sensations like this all the time.

"Patience costs nothing, Sherlock."

He feels his eyes narrow at such a pathetic comment. "Perhaps I might invite Barrington to my bedroom, exercise a little frustration."

Mycroft's fingers tangled in his hair go still, gaze sharpening considerably. There is silence for a very long moment, then - "You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?"

Sherlock bites his bottom lip, aware exactly what he's doing. He watches for a chink in Mycroft's armour and feels the twist and pull of rolling need in his stomach. Months - _months_ it's been and Sherlock feels like the final vestiges of his resistance are snapping...

They have a brief staring war then suddenly Sherlock feels the hand in his hair slip down slightly, Mycroft angling his mouth up to meet him. A rush of something warm and fierce like relief uncoiling in his chest and then they are less than an inch away from each other; Sherlock can feel warm, enticing breath on his lips when - 

"Mycroft?"

Mummy's voice through the door pauses them, Sherlock feels Mycroft drop his hand slowly, step reluctantly away. "Yes, Mummy?"

"Are you decent, dear?"

He takes a further step back and Sherlock dutifully closes his thighs, an action that he watches Mycroft observe wordlessly. "Of course, come in."

When she appears between them she is smiling and flushed in the cheek, ready for the dinner being prepared downstairs. "Isn't it nice having guests this time of year?" She asks, utterly oblivious, and Sherlock gives a tight, broken smile.

"Delightful," he says.

\-----------------------

Dinner takes place around the large table in the dining room, as it has every night since the Mountstuarts arrived. Sherlock is tired of dressing formally in his own home every evening, donning the tie and jacket and making polite conversation when really he'd rather take a book to the table and ignore everyone else. 

He is also tired of sitting opposite his brother making frivolous small talk and enthusing with feigned interest at everything the equine Mrs Mountstuart says; listening to father drone about stocks and shares and an economic crisis with the veritable booming voice of 'dear old Freddie' as mummy simpers over how cruel it must be to lose one's house at Christmas.

It's certainly cruel to have one's house _invaded,_ Sherlock knows that.

This evening Mycroft has opted for the far more formal white shirt and bow tie, possibly just to shame Sherlock's open top button and lack of cufflinks. He feels himself seething as he watches Mycroft incline his head politely towards Mrs Mountstuart, laughing a fake little laugh. He hates all this pomp, all this pointless ceremony and considers simply throwing a few things in a bag and returning to Oxford without a moment's notice - at least _there_ he can lock the door of his room and ignore the rest of the annoying, empty-headed world.

"Do you play polo, Sherlock?"

He glances up from spearing a particularly annoying potato to find Barrington Mountstuart smiling at him jovially. Sherlock feels a scathing reply forming on his tongue when suddenly, underneath the table he feels - 

The curl of a toe, sliding against his ankle. 

Sherlock abandons his train of thought and glances across at Mycroft. He's no longer simpering with Mrs Mountstuart, but is looking up at him through careful eyes. When their gazes meet, Sherlock feels the foot against his ankle run higher, up his calf beneath the soft cotton of his trousers.

"Ah, no," he replies, turning back to Barrington. The boy's face seems to crumple.

"Oh, bit of a shame. Rugger, then?"

Sherlock considers pointing out his lean, perfect limbs and unblemished nose when he feels another sweep of Mycroft's toes against his calf and he forgets, briefly. "No, sport isn't my thing."

He then listens - almost managing to feign pleasant interest - whilst the youngest Mountstuart launches into a rather long-winded ramble about the prospective polo team at Oxford. It's thoroughly mind-numbing, of course, but the slow drag of the arch of Mycroft's foot against his ankle rather distracts him and after a moment or two Sherlock realises that the fizzing, itching sensation that has resided in his stomach for an entire week is finally quiet. It's surprising how much quieter his mind is without it, and before he can take too long to think about it Sherlock is curling his toes around the foot that rubs against him until they're sweeping over each other.

The sensation only abates, however, until dessert is served and Sherlock catches Mycroft watching him. Possibly it's the overbearing sight of sweet stuff all around them but Mycroft's eyes look darker and Sherlock would - shamelessly - know that look anywhere. He takes a carefully considered lick of the chocolate on his spoon and glances away.

When he looks back, Mycroft is chatting politely with mummy on his left about government policy but the curl of his toes against the skin of Sherlock's heel says something else entirely. He feels a hitch of sensation in his stomach and reminds himself of his earlier game - osmium, mercury, polonium.

As soon as coffee is finished and everyone is rising to make their way into the drawing room, Sherlock feels a hand catch at his wrist, short nails digging into skin.

"The library," Mycroft says, and Sherlock feels a distinct thrill run through him at the unusual tone, the crack on the final syllable. He hangs back slightly, lets Mrs Mountstuart go ahead of him through the door and then as soon as he reaches the hallway, Sherlock branches off, feet quiet on the polished wood floor as he heads to the back of the house.

Inside the library it is dark, walls of book-lined shelves sitting silent. Sherlock shuts the door behind him and wanders over to the desk whilst he waits, running a hand along the smooth surface. He eventually flicks on the small lamp that causes a green glow from it's shade and he takes in the thousands of slim volumes, all leather bound and hardback, father's prized collection. He used to get Mycroft to lift down the bigger books when he was a child then leave them amongst the stack in his brother's room so that if father ever found any of them missing it would be Mycroft who got the blame rather than him.

Sherlock smiles tightly at the memory, one side of his mouth curving up quickly in triumph. 

He is still sitting like this when the door eventually opens and Mycroft steps in, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the thin light.

"They're playing whist in the drawing room."

"Stayed for a hand with dear old Barrington, did you?"

As Mycroft closes the door firmly behind him his mouth twists slightly at Sherlock's childishness. "I'd have thought you were beyond petty jealousy."

"You over-estimate me," he scowls. They consider each other warily for a few moments before Sherlock stands up and goes around the desk, straightening the pen, the letter-opener, the envelopes. He wonders from Mycroft's last comment how much he really knows about him, tries to ignore the sinking in his stomach that says not very much. "I assume there's a reason you dragged me in here? I did have some loathing to do in the drawing room, actually."

"How witty," Mycroft sighs, rolling his eyes. "Of course there's a reason I asked you here."

"And that would be..?"

Sherlock licks his lips, remembers the feeling of fingers on his jaw, prickles again deep in his stomach and waits. Waits. For Mycroft to make the final move, as usual.

"You're being purposefully obtuse," Mycroft says, stepping around the desk with a clear and determined purpose and Sherlock suddenly feels himself sweat, heart rate rising. "How very like you." He stops only when they are mere inches apart, clearly breaching any boundaries of personal space and shockingly obvious should anyone walk through the door. The still unlocked door. 

Sherlock feels his breathing quicken, realises he's watching Mycroft's mouth.

"Earlier in my bedroom..."

"Yes?"

"We were rather interrupted," Mycroft says, voice soft and low as honey as he steps closer, fingers brushing pointedly up Sherlock's arm. His quiet breathing is uneven in the silence of the room and Sherlock feels something uncurling in his stomach. He follows the movements instinctively as he's pushed back against the bookcase behind him, feels a spark of anticipation as his back hits the wood. 

Mycroft is doing nothing but watching his mouth and Sherlock feels his lips part slightly, more than ready. He's practically aching and his hips press forward of their own accord when hands come to settle on his waist, holding him still.

A tongue darts out to wet his lips and Sherlock feels the sudden urge to grab and drag at him but Mycroft is taking his time, savouring it. Annoying bastard.

When he finally leans in it is warm and soft but chaste, more a brush of noses that simply sets Sherlock's nerves on fire even further. He reaches out and clutches at Mycroft's coattails, breathing against his mouth as they hover there, foreheads touching. He wants to whine and claw at him but Sherlock holds back, counts the elements in the periodic table again and angles his face slightly, brushes against Mycroft's nose. In reply he gets a sharp exhalation, knows from experience that Mycroft is holding back, reigning himself in. The sound of it travels right through Sherlock's chest and settles low between his thighs, taking his temperature up a notch.

After a heartbeat more of the waiting game, Sherlock kisses him, just a gentle press of lips that are now dry, warm and tasting like the chocolate dessert at dinner. He lifts one arm up, sliding it along Mycroft's shoulder until his fingers card into the short, dark hair at the back of his neck and tighten. Like flicking on a switch, Mycroft reacts instantly.

This time when they meet their mouths are already open and it's hot, breath mingling as they come together smoothly, precise and determined and in direct contrast to the feel of Sherlock's spine digging in to the hard wood of the bookcase behind him. Mycroft arches into him, fitting them together possessively and Sherlock hears a choke of relief in the back of his throat as familiar fingers press at his jaw to angle his mouth for a deeper kiss, a tongue sliding along his lower lip until the fingers curling in the back of Mycroft's hair are tugging with pleasure. He feels like every nerve ending is on fire, like he can't possibly get close enough to his brother's mouth and he kisses him, again and again and - how long has it been? Far, _far_ too long.

The light brush of a hand on Sherlock's neck is suddenly replaced by lips as Mycroft moves down, kissing and sucking and biting at him feverishly, restraint totally gone. The sudden onslaught causes Sherlock to grab at the hips against his and thrust desperately, watching sparks of white hot light dance behind his closed eyes as Mycroft moves with him. They find their familiar rhythm quickly and there is a bite to the soft skin of his ear that sends an electric shock straight to Sherlock's stomach in reply. He pulls Mycroft's lips back to his mouth and kisses him fiercely, nipping at his bottom lip, unable to do anything but fight for more skin, more attention, more feeling.

They rock against each other, hard and aching and Sherlock barely knows what to do with himself until Mycroft takes charge and begins tugging at his trousers, pushing them down until they're around Sherlock's ankles and he can kick them off. The noise of his belt scratching along the library floor somehow undoes Sherlock in a way he didn't expect and he digs his fingers into Mycroft's shoulders, kissing him firmly again as they breath against each other, sharp and uneven. The noise of fumbling and a sharp scrape of a zip opening accompanies a devastating loss of hands and warmth as Mycroft abandons him to push his own trousers down, low around his thighs so that at least they're both blissfully free of restricting material.

When he finally closes the distance between them again and pins Sherlock back against the bookcase, the feel of skin on skin causes them both to groan, tight and coarse. Sherlock reaches out and grasps on to the library ladder beside him for support as they thrust against each other, hard and fast and desperate. It's like a sudden unraveling of all the frustration that has been tied up in his chest for weeks and when Mycroft claims his mouth again, Sherlock lets him have whatever he wants. He's aware that he's making short, sharp noises into the still quiet of the room but somehow Sherlock can't bring himself to care, about that or the fact that the door mere feet away is unlocked and opens out onto the hallway where any number of people could gather. Mycroft is hard against his stomach and every movement they both make is inching him closer and closer to that sparkling feeling of relief that Sherlock has been saving specifically for this moment, for his brother.

With fingers still gripping tightly to the book ladder, Sherlock lets his free hand slip down over Mycroft's neck, coming up to rest on his jaw until suddenly an equally elegant hand takes his and presses it up against the shelves behind him, splaying Sherlock out completely against the wood and leather spines. He feels pinned and possessed and the sensation quickly starts to undo him until Sherlock is gasping against the open mouth on his, coming against Mycroft's shirt and stomach and making a mess between their bodies. 

Mycroft lets his arm drop and stands perfectly still as Sherlock collapses against him. He threads a hand over Mycroft's shoulder, up into his hair and takes a moment to let his breathing come back to normal, face buried in his brother's neck. When he moves and the sensation sends a shock of pleasure through his over-sensitized skin, Sherlock groans and feels a hand slide into his hair as the voice against his ear shushes him gently. 

After a blissful minute Sherlock lets the hand clinging onto the ladder for support go free and leans back carefully against the bookcase behind him. His spine aches in all the right places. 

Mycroft watches him, eyes still dark and heavy, still pressed hard and aching into the flat of Sherlock's stomach. It's a sight that jolts him, makes his mouth water.

"I want to watch," Sherlock eventually says, and for a second there is a clear, obvious blush that blooms up on Mycroft's cheeks. It's satisfying knowing this old kink still gets him, still makes him flush with desire and shame at the same time.

Mycroft says nothing, narrows his eyes slightly at his little brother then reaches down, doing as he's told and wraps his fingers firmly around his own erection.

It doesn't take much but Sherlock never lets go of his eyes and the minute he sees Mycroft break, he kisses him, hard and fast and grateful. He doesn't ask this particular thing of him often, reserves it as something of a treat, but when he does get the chance of watching it's always a sight he remembers for weeks.

When Mycroft's breathing finally slows they both attempt to order themselves in silence, buttoning trousers and straightening jackets. It's obvious that neither of them can return to the drawing room in such a state but it's also clear that a shower together would be going too far, pushing things too much. Just in case.

They return to their rooms alone and Sherlock makes a swift calculation as the shower warms, counting the hours until Boxing Day.


End file.
